


Your Wickedness Will Punish You

by catchingthieves



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholicism, Chronic Pain, No Romance, References to "Daredevil: Know Fear", References to "Daredevil: No Devils Only God", References to "Daredevil: The Death of Daredevil", Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2020-06-01 10:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchingthieves/pseuds/catchingthieves
Summary: Alcohol won't be Matt's salvation, but who said the Devil was salvageable to begin with?After suffering debilitating injuries, Matt turns to drinking.A mix between the MCU and 616 canon because it was requested of me to fulfill specific guidelines, and I love the Zdarsky run of DD.Summer Updates.





	1. Whosoever is Deceived

**Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.**

**-Proverbs 20:1 (KJV)**

Matt was not inherently a heavy drinker. The answers to his problems would never be found at the bottom of a bottle. Alcohol would never be his salvation or source of comfort, not like it was for Foggy. Not like Karen and whatever it was that had pushed her towards her dependency upon much heavier and more dangerous substitutes. He would never allow it. It only took a couple of drinks to dull his senses and leave him virtually defenseless, two things he couldn’t stand for. It was difficult to trust such an unforgiving world, and even more so when he was vulnerable, like a turtle left on its back. Years of being surrounded by injustice and Catholicism’s influence left him jaded and suspicious of the world around him. The accident -- the one that nearly killed him -- hadn’t helped. He was in near constant pain. He was losing his touch. He prided himself in being careful, in never killing. It was much more difficult to manage when the world was a blur. Perhaps it was his punishment for his egotism.

Before it all came crashing down, he considered making drinking a more common habit. It allowed him to escape from the screams and cries for help he was always privy to. The begging and pleading for help that kept him up at night would simply disappear. He could fall into a routine most people found themselves facing in day to day life. But it wasn’t an option. The lives he had saved… the criminals he’d stopped… it was worth more than his own selfish desires. At least, then it was. Painkillers could only do so much for him without completely muddling his senses.

After a particularly taxing patrol, he was left in bad shape. His shoulder was dislocated from taking a particularly hard hit, and his whole body was thrumming with pain. He had a difficult time sensing where one injury ended and where the other would start. He kept brushing his thumb across a hairline crack he’d found in the rim of his glass of bourbon. The drink, though not as strong as he would have liked, was enough to dull the pain for the moment. It burned going down his throat but would slowly ease him into a false sense of security. He wasn’t the man he once was and the bourbon allowed him to forget it.

It occurred to him that his vices, though minimal in quantity as of now, always had to have a destructive aspect to them. Whether it was destructive to himself, those around him, or his immortal soul, they were always bad deeds excused as good ones. He would often tell himself that he was doing it to help others, to help himself. And yet, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Deep down, he believed, he did it because he liked it. He liked hurting himself and others, no matter how it happened. The way he found himself unable to live without -- Daredevil -- required spending long nights running through the city and brutally solving crime with his fists. The other he found himself committing almost as frequently called for pouring himself a glass and drinking until the pain faded into white noise.

When he wasn’t fighting until his knuckles bled and his body begged for rest, he needed to find something else. And these days, he wasn’t as able to go on as Daredevil and the pain was more constant. Something had to replace Daredevil when Matt couldn’t keep getting back up. Something to take the edge off. Something that would distract from the aching bruises and the burning lacerations. It almost became a ritual: He fought off crime in the night as Daredevil and poured himself a glass as the sun began to rise. He was fully aware that his actions were unwise -- suicidal, even -- but he couldn’t find it in himself to care or stop. It wasn’t suicide as long as he, himself, did not carry out the act. As long as he was still fighting, there was no way he could take the blame.

He set his jaw, closing his fingers around the glass and bringing it to his lips. His hand shook as he let it trickle down his throat. He welcomed the familiar burn, hoping it would lessen his pain as he poured another glass.


	2. The Righteous and The Wicked

**The LORD trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth.**

**-Psalm 11:5 (KJV)**

Matt woke up with a staggering headache. His entire body felt like a bruise, begging him for more rest. Now, he was disoriented for an entirely different reason: every sound within a forty-mile radius buzzed in his ears. On a normal day, he would have stayed home because of the overload. But if he was absent today, he was worried Foggy would shout himself hoarse. He pulled himself out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom. He just barely missed hitting the door frame head on, the excess input making the world around him a blur and converge in areas like ink bleeding through a page. Some pieces of furniture disappeared completely to make way for others blocks away.

This made finding painkillers a pain, in themselves. His fingers trembled over the labels as he searched. He couldn't focus, having to find them by scent alone, and even that was a struggle. Getting dressed and then to work was much harder. He knew the streets of Hell's Kitchen like the back of his hand, and yet he found himself lost in the sea of New Yorkers swarming and surging from place to place. Without his cane, it would have been genuinely impossible.

Almost an hour after he departed, he arrived at work. He stumbled into the office silently, hoping to escape Foggy's wrath. If only he were so lucky. Judging by the damned near jarring tapping of a foot, Foggy Nelson was far from pleased. Matt chose to ignore it, passing his partner and going on to his sad excuse for an office. After running his fingers over the same line of Braille for half an hour, Matt realized that it was virtually impossible for him to interpret any of it. He couldn't concentrate long enough. The rest of the world insisted on intruding, distracting him from the raised dots on the page. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a huff in annoyance, the sharp crack of leather only adding to his overload. His only hope at this point was that he would be sober enough for patrol later that night, otherwise, there would be a whole other problem.

He rubbed his temples, only soothing the pain minutely. It was almost a reminder that the highs were almost never worth the lows. That was only the alcohol related symptoms, the rest of his body felt like a fresh bruise in an inconvenient place. The quiet explanations Foggy tried to give Karen only made things worse. Between the lies they were feeding her and the sound of Foggy's voice, Matt's head was throbbing. As far as Karen was concerned, the bruises and cuts that littered his body were only caused by alcohol. He was an especially clumsy, blind man, and the alcohol only made it worse.

It pained him to lie to her -- make Foggy lie to her -- but it was for her own safety... all of their safety. The more people who knew about Daredevil, the more danger they would all be in. Matt grimaced, torn from his thoughts by an explosion of noise: a knock on the door frame. He tilted his head up, glaring at the intruder through the dark lenses of his glasses. Foggy chose to ignore this, letting himself in.

"You look like shit, Matt." The words held no kindness, but there were still remnants of concern masked by anger.

He shifted until he was sitting upright, facing Foggy, "I feel it."

He could sense his associate's uncomfortable gaze bearing down on him, as if he'd just found a cockroach instead of Matt in the office, "I'm sick of lying to her." There it was. The rage seeping into his tone.

Matt grit his teeth, his ears nearly ringing, "It wasn't my intent for either of you to find out." He was vaguely aware of Foggy's nagging as his mind wandered. Something about the dangers of being a masked vigilante and how it was morally wrong. All Matt could focus on was how much his head ached. His friend's words were thunder, every phrase jarring.

He was brought back to the present by Foggy's sigh in resignation, "Go home, Matt."

He shook his head, throwing the world off kilter, "There's no need. I'm entirely capable of sorting through these." His words came out in almost a whisper, though it sounded like a shout to his own ears.

A shift in the blond's breathing: a frown, "You've been skimming the same witness statement for the past two hours. Go home."

As much as he wanted to refuse, he knew Foggy was leaving him with no choice. He let out a sigh, gathering his belongings. He could feel his ever-present anger begin to rise in his chest. He clenched his briefcase in a white-knuckled grip, calming himself with a small exhale as the leather creaked. Finally, he left.


	3. A Wrathful Man

**“A wrathful man stirreth up strife: but he that is slow to anger appeaseth strife.”**

**Proverbs 15:18 (KJV)**

As soon as he opened the front door, Matt went to throw on his suit. The smell of last night’s work nearly masked the constant of leather from him. No matter how terrible of an idea it seemed to be, he was determined to use his new-found free time for the greater good (whatever that was. No point in pondering it now). Sluggishly, he pulled the grimy suit on, wincing and biting the inside of his cheek to keep his groans in pain at bay. Once that was over with, he began his journey into the alleys and crime-ridden streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The normalcy Matt Murdock knew was replaced by the deadly world of Daredevil. The familiar taste of cheap coffee and the scent of dusty books were washed away with the even more familiar taste of blood and scent of leather and sweat. 

If only it was as fun as it sounded on paper. As soon as he left the roof of the apartment complex, he was plunged into a world of darkness. He found himself tripping over buildings he should have sensed - buildings he had jumped to more times than he could count. He was only so lucky he hadn’t vaulted off the side of a building on accident. Crime wasn’t too heavy until the sun began to set, not that he could tell. By then, he was being beaten over and over again. 

Every victory was coupled with new aches and pain, each only making the previously received injuries that much worse. Still, he got up time after time. He was fine up until he confronted a pair of particularly aggressive muggers. It was then that his fatigue and injuries decided to catch up to his body. His slowed movements and the ringing in his ears resulted in taking one too many hits. He got knocked down more than he would like to admit. It was almost a game: how many times could he get back up? The answer was fifteen. 

Sixteen was coupled with a particularly hard blow to the head - he could have sworn he saw stars. The ringing in his ears only worsened and significantly muddled the surrounding area. Any sense of his surroundings he previously had were almost immediately lost. He stumbled and swung aimlessly, unsure of what would hit or not. He got a few hits in, but hardly enough to make a significant difference. It wasn’t long until his former targets caught onto this, using the advantage without hesitation. 

Matt had taken so many hits he could hardly distinguish his own heartbeat from his now-assailants’. He tried to pull himself to his feet, only to collapse and curl up on his side, protecting his stomach. He had no idea where the next attack would be or who it would come from. The pain… well, it was damn-near unbearable. He would have laughed if he had it in him - if he was sure that his ribs were all still intact. In his pain-filled stupor, he found humor in something that should have been humiliating. He was going to die. Daredevil was going to die, murdered by two muggers in a random alleyway. Either it was hilarious, or he was just that delirious. He was certain the Bulletin would have a field day with this. He sort of hoped Karen would write a good obituary and wouldn’t be too mad he kept this from her. 

He let his eyes close, muttering one last prayer he was sure no one would hear. And suddenly, the world began to crumble into darkness.


	4. The Faithful Wounds of a Friend

**“Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.”**

**Proverbs 27:6 (KJV)**

The blissful numbness of sleep burned away with an explosion of sound. The intrusion of a million sounds and smells and sensations left him with a splitting headache. He took deep, ragged breaths, his chest feeling like it was about to burst with the simple movement. He tried to sit up, a gasp in pain letting itself out as he gripped the headboard. Headboard? He ran his fingers over it, trying to assess who’s it was and where he was. He felt familiar scratches and indentations in the old wood, and the bed sheets didn’t burn his skin like the rough abrasiveness of cotton would have. He was home. 

He quickly moved a hand to his head, heart pounding in his ears when he realized the absence of his cowl. His eyes flickered, blindly seeking out whoever brought him here. He gripped the headboard, trying to focus on the contents of the apartment. By the time he got any sort of read, his hands were in a white-knuckled grip on the headboard. Beneath the disorienting onslaught of excess noises and smells, he found a heartbeat other than his own. The other person was in his living room. His - it was a man - heartbeat was light, almost like a flutter of a bird’s wings. It was slow and steady, like a well-trained athlete’s. And it was familiar, almost relievingly so. If the heartbeat wasn’t the dead give away, then it was the spandex and scent of something sharp and medicinal. 

He held in a groan at the realization, wishing he had died in that alleyway. What could he say, he was a prideful man. He took a few deep breaths, bracing himself to leave the bed. He took one step towards the door before immediately collapsing in pain. He tried to assess what had gone wrong, finding the answer in a break in his lower leg. He gripped the bed frame, attempting to pull himself back up again. He was so engrossed in trying to get back up that he didn’t even notice the other vigilante enter the room. He must have made more noise than he’d initially thought. Out of nowhere, it seemed, he was face to face with the one and only Spider-Man. He bit back a low growl, still trying to pull himself up. It was clear the web-slinger was hesitant to approach, scared if his heartbeat was any indication. 

Still, the man threw on a brave face, “You’re awake.” Matt could hear the almost childish smile in his tone as he spoke. One he knew well. 

He pursed his lips, adjusting himself slightly on the floor with a grunt in pain, “Really? I couldn’t tell.” He tried to move again, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder, the site immediately exploding in pain. He couldn’t help but grimace, trying to move away. He knew he didn’t stand a chance against the younger in this state, but it didn’t stop him from shrugging it off. 

Peter frowned but didn’t attempt to replace it, “You’re lucky I found you when I did. Another minute and you might’ve been swimming with the fishes. To be honest, I didn’t even know you were still kicking ‘till I got super close. I mean, you were practically a goner.”

Matt rubbed his temples with a sigh. Peter was not helping to mitigate his headache, “Thank you for that. You can go, now.”

The web-slinger shook his head, not making a move or any indication he would be leaving any time in the immediate future, “I’m not finished… and you can’t even walk. Leaving you wouldn’t be a very responsible thing of me to do.” 

Matt scowled at him, trying to get up to prove him wrong. He could take care of himself, dammit. Unfortunately, his body disagreed. He collapsed as soon as he’d managed to pull himself up. He hissed in pain, trying to ignore it, “I appreciate what you did - for not taking me to the hospital - but you need to leave. I can manage on my own just fine.” The web-slinger must have been oblivious to the extent of Matt’s injuries. Otherwise, he was sure he would be in a hospital gown and overwhelmed by the smell of sterile equipment. 

He gritted his teeth, trying to use what little strength he had for another attempt, only to fail. This time, Peter took it upon himself to pick Matt up and deposit him on the bed. He allowed it for now, letting the younger man have one victory. It was the only one he’d be getting. 

Peter set him down gently, as if Matt weren’t a two-hundred pound man, “Look, I… I’ve been keeping tabs on you, and lately, you’ve just been out of sorts. You need to take a break. You almost died, Matt. You were almost killed by two low-threat muggers. Let that sink in for a moment.” 

The corner of Matt’s mouth twitched, “They didn’t seem so low-threat.” He could still sense every broken bone. Every bruise and cut and gash. He wasn’t even sure if any of them had healed at all. He was almost angered by how much Peter was trivializing the attack and what he’d gone through. 

“Matt… You need to get yourself together. Never thought I’d have to say this to you, but you’re doing more hard than good. You’re not only endangering yourself, but others, too. I’m not telling you to put up the mask, I don’t even think you could, but if you’re gonna be Daredevil… you need to be at your best. I know you love Hell’s Kitchen, but at this rate, you aren’t protecting it at all. You… might be making it worse, if anything. Take a break.” 

“And how do you suppose I do that?” He clenched his jaw, hands balling into fists, “Should I go on vacation? Leave Hell’s Kitchen to be torn to shreds in my absence?” 

The web-slinger frowned, “No, of course not… Look, I’m willing to cover the Kitchen while you recuperate, but you need the time. I can tell. You need the time to heal-” 

Matt scoffed, waving a hand dismissively, “I don’t need your help or anyone else’s. I’ve got everything under control.” 

“We both know that’s not true. But that’s okay-” 

“Don’t you ever shut up?” It was almost a growl. 

Peter stiffened, straightening out slightly. It hadn’t exactly scared him off like Matt had hoped. Instead, he seemed almost indignant, “I’m trying to help you, as your friend.” 

“Leave.” It wasn’t a request or a suggestion, but a command. He shifted, pulling himself into more of a sitting position. He couldn’t help but grunt in pain. His words hadn’t been coming out as threatening or harsh as he’d intended, but Peter seemed to have gotten the message. 

He opened the nearest window, intending to leave out of it, “We’re finishing this conversation later. Until then, take care of yourself, Matt. Actually take care of yourself. Don’t just pretend. You’re no good to anyone dead.” 

The words echoed in his head, though he didn’t give them much thought at all. Peter didn’t understand. How could he? Spider-Man lived in a world strictly divided into good and evil with no room for gray areas. He lived in a world that was filled with laughter and bled color. He knew nothing of the darkness Matt faced every day of his life. The kind of darkness that snuffed out any light it could find. A world where everyone had their own reasons and stories. A world populated by criminals and liars. Spider-Man lived in a world of light. The only glimpse of light the Devil knew was hell fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! I have to rewrite some of the upcoming content because I lost my original notes other than "deus ex arachnid".


	5. Arm Yourselves Likewise...

“Forasmuch then as Christ hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourselves likewise with the same mind: for he that hath suffered in the flesh hath ceased from sin…”

1 Peter 4:1 (KJV) 

Maybe ten minutes went by before Matt was forcing his way back onto his feet, pain and nausea quick to rise with him. He could feel his hand throb as he fought to keep a white-knuckled grip on the bed frame as he rose. Though the pain in his hand kept his attention, the ache in his shoulder was almost just as bad. Slowly, he began to straighten out, shaky breaths the only anchor he had in a hurricane of noise. The cacophony of sound shrouded his world in a hazy fog, and the pain added an uneasiness that only made it more difficult to navigate. Unable to keep track of surroundings that should have been familiar, Matt found himself on the ground, groping for his cane in a truly blind effort. 

With every minute spent searching, resentment steadily rose in his chest. Before any of this happened - before the accident and before the drinking had gotten out of control - his cane had been a prop used in a show he put on for those around him. Alone, he scarcely had any use for it. Now, he was almost lost without it. He relied on it. Using the bed as a reference point, he began to move to where he thought he had left it last. The resentment was quickly turning into frustration as he felt for the cane. What used to take seconds for him was beginning to take several minutes. Even more humiliating, he was practically crawling to reach it. 

Every muscle in his body was begging him to give in and rest, but it wasn’t the first time this had happened, and he’d be damned if he let it stop him now. As he trembled from overexertion, a small, traitorous thought rang out in his mind. Perhaps he should have listened to the spider and let him take him to the hospital. Maybe he should have asked him to stay longer, so he didn’t feel so helpless now. This was too much. He needed help. He… 

His hand finally landed on the familiar plastic of his cane. His arm shook as he extended it, his weight shifting uncomfortably to his other side. He gritted his teeth, a hint of pain and discomfort spiking up through his arm. Once it was securely in his hand, he moved into a sitting position, shuddering breaths escaping as he moved. His entire body seemed to cry out in protest, hot white pain burning through him. He groaned as his weight shifted once more, but he continued to move, seeing no point in stopping now. Finally free, he switched his cane to his other hand, a small bit of relief cooling the pain. He looped the strap over his wrist, using the same hand to seek out the edge of the bed. 

Taking slow, deliberate breaths, he began to push himself up again. His hand was throbbing and his shoulder ached, but he refused to let that stop him from getting back up. As fast as he could manage, he pulled himself up and onto the bed, a grunt in pain escaping as he landed on the plush mattress behind him. Mind free from a goal, he was now vaguely aware of how his body trembled. Though he was cold to the touch, he could feel a cold sheen of sweat drenching his entire body. His hand shook as he wiped sweat from his brow, even the minor touch bringing him pain. Shaky breaths had turned into ragged breathing, the few feet of movement having affected him more than he had initially thought. Feelings of shame began to make themselves known, only to be overpowered by the constant presence of pain and fatigue. He blinked slowly, eyelids suddenly feeling very heavy. The thought of sleep was more than alluring, but before he could close his eyes, the room was filled with the obnoxious droning of “Foggy. Foggy. Foggy”. 

He let out a grunt in annoyance, feeling around on the bedside table for his phone. He almost flinched when his hand landed on it, partially in surprise but mostly in discomfort. He picked it up, answering with a curt, “what?” 

There was a brief pause before Foggy began to speak, his tone almost as irritated as Matt’s, “where the hell are you? I know I sent you home to work things out, but we still need you here. At the very least, you could have called to let me know you weren’t coming.” 

Matt tilted his head slightly, biting back his own annoyance at the situation, “I’m alive. You can stop worrying, now.” 

Foggy sighed, the rest of the image following easily enough for Matt. He could practically imagine Foggy shaking his head, “was this… are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, Foggy. I just needed to take some time for myself. I’ll be there tomorrow bright and early.” It was more likely he’d collapse before he even made it across the threshold of the front door, but Foggy didn’t need to know that. 

“Are you sure-” before Foggy could finish his thought, Matt had hung up, wincing as he leaned forward with a sigh. Foggy being on his case was the last thing he needed today. Right now, all Matt wanted was some peace and quiet. He turned his phone off, tossing it somewhere else on the bed before falling back on the bed with a grunt. He shifted, trying to get comfortable only to find he was far too awake to even attempt to sleep. Even with his phone off, he was sure Foggy would find other ways to give him grief. If he couldn’t sleep, he reasoned, he might as well get up. 

He willed himself to move, muscles stiff and nearly unwilling to obey. With a loud groan in pain, he managed to prop himself up on his elbows only to quickly shift his weight to his good side. Somehow, he managed to convince himself that if he moved quickly enough, the pain wouldn’t affect him as much as it would otherwise. At the very least, it might only register after he’d already moved. It didn’t take him long to realize his mistake. In his dash to the bedroom door, he was overcome with a feeling of nausea. His grip on his cane only added to the intense pain burning through him. He felt like he’d run a marathon when really he’d hardly crossed the bedroom. He found himself relying on the wall, slowly making his way to the kitchen, abandoning any notions of his previous idea. In the back of his mind he knew what he was about to do was a bad idea, but he couldn’t find it in himself to genuinely care. 

Before he knew it, he was downing a beer, the familiar taste almost comforting. It wouldn’t help ease the pain the way whiskey or bourbon or even his weak medication would have, but it had been closer at the moment. He didn’t know why, but he almost felt rushed, quickly gulping down as much as he could at a time. It didn’t take long for it to be gone, but once it was, Matt moved to the sad little cupboard he’d dubbed his liquor cabinet. He grabbed the nearest bottle, an already half-empty bottle of whiskey, his fingers aching in protest as he opened it. It was a brief reminder of the fractures there, but he ignored it in favor of chasing down the familiar burn of alcohol. He decided to forgo the shot glass, knowing he’d probably finish the bottle. With every passing second, the world began to quiet. He reveled in the peaceful lull the whiskey had brought on, once again finding his peace of mind at the bottom of a bottle. 

He drank slowly, the world falling away. He was able to enjoy it for maybe ten minutes before he was brought back to reality by footsteps. They were hard to place at first, feeling far away and muddled until he realized they were heading in his general direction. He quickly finished off the bottle, replacing it with a bottle of beer. At least this way, whoever it was wouldn’t be able to accuse him of drinking too much. The now-empty whiskey bottle was returned to its place in the cupboard and there was only one beer bottle in the trash. It would be a stretch to accuse him, at least. He wouldn’t be caught. Not if he could help it. Soon enough, someone was knocking at his door. The noise was still painfully loud, but at least now it was bearable. 

He made his way to the door, answering quicker than he might have without any special “help”. He stood there for a moment, gears slowly turning in his head as he tried to figure out who it might be. An annoyed clearing of the throat gave his visitor away. He should have guessed… “Foggy, I’m fine.” He tried not to sigh, but he was tired of his friend’s coddling, regardless of intent. 

He already knew Foggy didn’t believe him, but it was worth a shot. He could feel his friend’s gaze on him, the atmosphere heavy with something Matt couldn’t put his finger on. “I get why you didn’t show up, now. You look like crap.” If his tone was any indication, Foggy wasn’t in the mood to hear any of Matt’s excuses. Matt couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad about it. He was a fucking mess. 

“Should see the other guy…” He hoped Foggy would ease up on him if he made it seem like he was alright. When he was met with silence, he took another drink. Part of him hoped the silence would coax Foggy into leaving. For a brief moment, it seemed like he might. Unfortunately, Foggy stayed where he was. Matt couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that he’d been wrong. 

Instead of leaving like Matt had hoped, Foggy shifted from foot to foot before speaking again, “so what did you break this time?” 

Matt snorted, unable to hide his smile, “what makes you think I broke anything?” He already knew the answer, but it was easier to ignore it. 

“I don’t  _ think _ you broke something. I  _ know _ you did. And you know how I know. You being you is enough to assume you’re injured in some way at least 90% of the time.” 

Matt couldn’t help but laugh at that, “only 90%?” 

Foggy let out a heavy sigh, “just let me help.” 

Matt hummed in acknowledgement, Foggy quick to begin patching him up and lecturing him. Matt just drank, knowing there was no point in arguing. At least the alcohol numbed him not only to pain, but to everything else as well. In the time it took for Foggy to patch him up, Matt had finished his beer. His friend’s mutterings had mostly fallen deaf on his ears, Matt only lending his help when Foggy asked again what he had broken. He ended up with makeshift splints and a sling for his shoulder. He was sure he’d fuss over them in the morning, but for now he chose to keep quiet. He was about to dismiss Foggy when his friend insisted on staying to keep an eye on him. It was going to be a long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Republished due to AUTO CORRECT >:(


End file.
